"Hush!" she said, putting her lean fingers to her lips. Kneebone, having been alarmed by something in the widow's look before her feelings found vent in the manner above described, thrust his hand instinctively into his coat in search of his pocket-book,—about the security of which, as it contained several letters and documents implicating himself and others in the Jacobite plot, he was, not unnaturally, solicitous,—and finding it gone, he felt certain he had been robbed. Ruth out of the picture, he wouldn't have concerned himself so eagerly in regard to Spurlock's departure. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. . The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned.
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